


Sundown

by IdleMinders



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Ableist Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Games, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Racist Language, Slow Burn, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleMinders/pseuds/IdleMinders
Summary: The biggest case of Carlton Lassiter's career turns into the most complicated. Any other time he would have been thrilled to be the one to solve the Mr. Yang murders—except they also solved a cold missing child's case, a high school freshman who disappeared in 1992 with personal connections to the Santa Barbara Police department. Shawn Spencer may be back after fourteen years, but Carlton doesn't believe he could be anything but a threat to society. And Shawn doesn't feel like he can ever fit back into society—not when he barely fit to begin with. Being a psychic detective after everything else will barely scratch the surface.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 39
Kudos: 154





	1. Day 0

**Author's Note:**

> A recent Psych binge has pitched me into Psych fic full tilt, and I am trying my hand at writing fic again after way too long. Tags may change as the fic goes along, but I will always include a note at the beginning of a chapter if new tags have been added.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if you catch any misspellings, but grammar errors might be intentional. Please accept a certain amount of hand-waving about the justice/legal system.

**1992**

Shawn dug out some change from the bottom of his backpack, sliding them into the slots in the pay phone and dialing home—he was pretty sure his dad was home, anyway. If he had been called to the station, he would have sent someone else to pick Shawn up. It rang several times before it connected, and Shawn was greeted with a slightly-ruffled, “ _This is Spencer._ ”

“Dad!” Shawn said, huffing loudly into the mouthpiece. “I’ve been waiting here for like, ever! Wrestling practice ended forty minutes ago.”

“ _I know, Shawn_ ,” Henry replied, his voice heavy with annoyance and insufferable authority. “ _Which is why I was there fifty minutes ago, and waited twenty minutes while you sat around the gym, fooling around with your friends_.”

“What?” Shawn said, frowning. His dad hadn’t come into the gym—Shawn would have heard it—but he had probably just glared through the window in the door, like some kind of grumpy peeping Tom. “Dad, we weren’t fooling around, I was schmoozing. It’s my first year of high school, I wanna move up in the team! Haven’t you told me that politics was part of getting anywhere in life?”

“ _In the workplace, Shawn. You’re not even on a varsity team. And I’ve also told you that you need to be respectful of my time. If I take time out of my day to give you a ride, you need to be ready for it_ ,” Henry replied. “ _So maybe you ride your bike home today, and consider it a lesson well-taught_.”

“Dad!” Shawn whined. “Come on! I got a ride with Gus to school, I don’t have my bike. And I’m going to miss the new _Real World_ episode and I cannot be the only kid in school who can’t talk about it tomorrow!”

“ _Remind me why we have cable again, if all you’re going to do is watch that crap?_ ” Henry asked, and Shawn rolled his eyes. He could picture the exact way Henry was shaking his head. “ _Look Shawn, I just put our dinner in the oven. It has a twenty minute cook time. Once it’s done, I’ll come to the high school and pick you up. And you can take advantage of the extra time to get some homework done while you wait_.”

“Dad!” Shawn protested. “You can’t be serious. You drove all the way home instead of, I don’t know, letting me know you were there? And now I’m the one who has to wait like, an extra forty minutes from _now_?”

“ _You knew I was going to be picking you up, kid. You made the choice not to be ready. Consider this incentive to do better next time. I’ll see you in forty minutes._ ” Shawn squawked when he heard a click and a dial tone, and slammed the receiver back down.

“Oh my god!” Shawn shouted, slamming his fist against the side of the booth. He grabbed his backpack and stormed out, pausing for only a minute before he turned towards the street. He didn’t have his bike, but there was no way in hell he was just going to stand around waiting for his dad. He’d walk home—maybe catch a ride, playing puppy eyes on a soccer mom. The drive only took fifteen or twenty minutes, but the walk was closer to forty-five—if he cut across some short cuts. It would still get him home faster then waiting for his dad. He pulled out his Walkman—or Gus’s Walkman, anyway—glad that he had thought to shove it in his bag that morning. It got dark twenty minutes in, but he could still see well enough to make his way along. He passed some cars, but none that he was going to stick out his thumb for ( _druggie, business guy who wouldn’t stop anyway, that one’s drunk, that one might actually be a pervert_ …) but it was a relatively quiet night.

_Can't light no more of your darkness  
All my pictures seem to fade to black and white  
I'm growing tired and time stands still before me  
Frozen here on the ladder of my life_

He was cutting across fourth street when a van silently pulled to a stop in front of him. Shawn squinted against the headlights, taking a step back when they didn’t turn off and he heard the release of the car door. Shawn felt a tight pooling in his stomach, the hairs on the back of his neck going up. He couldn’t see anyone—the driver didn’t say anything. But Shawn wasn’t idiot—everything his dad had ever told him about trusting his gut flashed in front of his eyes. He turned and bolted, hearing the rasp of feet pounding over damp pavement behind him.

_It's much too late to save myself from falling  
I took a chance and changed your way of life  
But you misread my meaning when I met you  
Closed the door and left me blinded by the light_

Hands caught him from behind, a sweet rag pressing over his mouth. _Chloroform,_ his brain immediately supplied. He kicked out, hands finding the rough fabric of a coat—trench coat, leather gloves, a thick watch underneath, analog, man, older—but an arm quickly clamped down around his waist, even as Shawn’s kicking slowed.

_Don't let the sun go down on me  
Although I search myself, it's always someone else I see  
I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free, oh  
But losing everything is like the sun going down on me_

He refused to stop struggling. His dad always said to fight an abductor with everything you had. His headphones ripped off his ears, and Stiles could hear breathing, the idling van combined with the absolute stillness of the street. Cars passing by the opening of the street in front of him, but no one seemed to notice Shawn’s struggle. Gus’s Walkman slipped from his pocket, smashing on the street. He kicked again and heard it skittering away, disjointed music playing weakly from the headphones. But he couldn’t—they were moving backwards now, Shawn’s eyes growing heavy. He still tried to listen to something, anything. The man’s arm left him for a moment to open the door, and then he was being lifted, placed onto the floor. He wasn’t even restrained, and the last thing he heard was the van doors closing behind him.

* * *

**2006**

Before the call came in, it had been a quiet night. Sure, Carlton was smarting because Lucinda’s suggested “long-distance” relationship after she accepted a transfer had failed miserably. He understood she wanted to be a head detective. But surely Karen wasn’t going to be interim chief _too_ much longer, and if he got a good case, he’d be a shoe-in for the permanent role. A few more months, he’d said, and it’d all be sorted. But she said something about him getting a bit too obvious with his flirting with her, and needing space to grow.

Space, sure. Everyone seemed to want space from him these days. When Victoria left, she took all of their friends with her. It wasn’t like he was going to spend time visiting his _family_ , that was for damned sure. Pouring himself into work was easy, familiar. His new partner was perhaps a bit too green, too sweet, but she did good work. Carlton was sure he could mentor her, even if it had taken her a few months to get over the rumors swirling around just why Lucinda had left.

The one bit of good news was that Santa Barbara was as weird a place as ever. Murders, kidnappings, scams—they never seemed to stop. Their most recent case had them pouring over phone records and security cameras, trying to figure out just who had kidnapped a City Councilman’s niece. Hannah Golightly’s face smiled out at them from on top of the crime board, nineteen years old with a bright future. She’d disappeared after her volunteer shift at the library downtown in the afternoon, in broad daylight. No activity on her accounts, no ransom note, no bodies found. No reports of disturbances, nothing in her own history. It was literally as if she had vanished off the face of the earth. If it truly was random—and the fact the current boyfriend _and_ the ex-boyfriend both had airtight alibis—Carlton had the suspicion they were really looking for a body.

Or he did, until Buzz ran up to Carlton’s desk, eyes wide as saucers. “Detective Lassiter,” he stammered. “We—a 911 call came in. From Hannah Golightly.”

“What?” Juliet’s head snapped up from her desk, but Carlton was already reaching for his jacket. His gun was already holstered, of course. “What are you waiting for, McNab? Get me the address!”

He let Juliet communicate with dispatch as they practically flew to the shithole beach she said she was located at. He knew Karen wouldn’t be too far behind them, and he needed to get his lay of the crime scene first, before he could be distracted. It wasn’t that Vick did a _bad_ job … he just knew he could do it better.

Carlton barely bothered to stop the car before he was leaping out of it, Juliet close behind, both of their guns drawn. The moon was high over the beach, letting them see the dark figures in the distance. He could hear three voices as they ran closer—one high and panicked, near a fence, speaking into a phone. It had to be Hannah, dirty and leaning against a fence post, a chain half-buried in the sand beside her. There were two more: a sharp, rasp of a woman’s voice, ranting and disjointed, and a man’s voice, low and unnervingly calm. A body stretched between them, a dark mass lying face down in the sand, dark stains beginning to soak out around it.

“Hands in the air!” Carlton roared the second he saw the knives in the second woman’s hands, both covered in blood. Curly black hair framed a sharp, pale face, and the woman seemed to bare her teeth at them. “I said put your hands in the air!”

The man beside her had his arms wrapped around her, and he seemed to give her a shake. “Hands up,” the man repeated, his voice still calm, and soft. “Yang—hands up, _please_.”

Carlton froze for a moment, the name springing up with a hundred red flags. “Yang?” he repeated. It didn’t look like a given name—something Juliet would kill him for suggesting aloud. He gave both of them a closer look, though they were thrown in blue moon light. She was probably in her forties, and there was a chaotic, feral look in her eyes. She was also shaking, a fine tremor, and she shrunk back against the man even as she seemed coiled to leap forward. The man was younger, in his early thirties, if that. He seemed pale, and perhaps too thin, his hair sculpted and combed back. When the man glanced at Carlton he seemed resigned, in an exhausted, awful way that made Carlton feel like he should pull his trigger, just to be safe.

“It’s over, it’s over. Hands up,” the man said softly, and finally the woman complied, bloody weapons falling from her hands. Uniformed officers surged from behind Carlton, finally catching up to them, quickly getting the two in handcuffs. Carlton lowered his weapon and turned, watching as Juliet crouched beside a sobbing Hannah, slowly helping her upright. Hannah shied away from the body, scrambling back. “What the hell is this?” Carlton muttered lowly, but Hannah seemed to have heard him anyway.

“It was him,” she managed, pointing to the body. “He called himself Mr. Yin.”

A Yin and a Yang. There was no coincidence that big, not in Santa Barbara. He turned to an officer, finally holstering his gun. “Get Chief Vick on the phone, and keep those two under armed guard. I think we’ve finally caught Mr. Yang.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the song Shawn was listening to was Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me by Elton John. Used because it was one of the most popular songs of 1992!


	2. Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added tag: Racist Language, because it's Lassie.
> 
> More of Shawn's time in captivity is going to be addressed as the story goes on, but some parts of his personality remain the same.

The biggest case of Carlton’s career was officially the most complicated. Oh, he’d unraveled complex hoaxes and cross-kidnappings. Vendettas, murder suicides, even the odd cult or two. But this … he stared through the interrogation room window at the man on the other side. The name he’d given—the name on the ID in the guy’s wallet—was Sean Rotmensen. But the man’s prints had come up in the system as belonging to Shawn Spencer, a missing child’s case from 1992. And Carlton knew that case very well. Everyone who worked with Henry Spencer knew it.

There hadn’t been much to go on. Henry Spencer had gone to the high school to pick up his son after a wrestling practice, and found no one there. Everything had been dismissed as behavioral issues until it was discovered the kid hadn’t contacted his best friend—something apparently unthinkable. Said best friend’s smashed Walkman was found two blocks from the Spencer household with one of Shawn’s tapes in it and the entire department was brought into the search. Missing posters went up everywhere, Madeline Spencer’s parents put up reward money. But every search, every tip, every lead turned up nothing. The smashed Walkman was the only proof Shawn Spencer didn’t disappear into thin air.

Carlton was going to have a DNA test put through. Because the very idea that the man sitting before him was that missing kid was ludicrous. They’d found more than enough evidence in the van to conclude that they’d caught Mr. Yang. Or Mr. Yin and Mrs. Yang, or whatever the hell was going on there. The psychologist Vick was bringing in was going to have a field day. There had been a packet in the front seat, the tell-tale envelope with a Yin-Yang sticker and the typical cryptic note inside.

_ANNOUNCING a NEW player TO my GAME - will BE checking IN soon - UNTIL then GIVE santa BARBARA my LOVE - the PRODIGAL son RETURNS_

It had been written out in what they’d now identified as lip gloss from Hannah’s bag, and Carlton figured someone would have to be an idiot not to figure out who the prodigal son referred to. But then there was Hannah’s statement, where she swore up and down that she had been taken by the deceased man on the beach. Hannah hadn’t seen “Sean Rotmensen” until she was tied up in the van taking them to the beach, and Yang had appeared, guiding a blindfolded man wearing heavy earmuffs inside. And yet he hadn’t been restrained at all, she’d added. He went willingly.

“What the hell are looking at here, O’Hara?” Carlton said as the door opened and Juliet joined him. “Was this guy kidnapped, or was he helping them?”

“Could be Stockholm syndrome,” Juliet replied, glancing down at the file that had practically tripled in the past twelve hours. “Assuming Yang—and I guess, Yin—were the ones that originally kidnapped him, it means that he’s been with them for over fourteen years.” The number hung heavy in the air. Half of the man’s life. “And I’ve seen the Mr. Yang case files, whatever happened to him there couldn’t have been … pleasant.”

No, Carlton didn’t think they were. The man was sitting silently, and blankly. But Yang next door was a different case entirely. Her statement flowed easily, agreeing to pretty much everything they accused her of—though with a million little creepy quips. The only time Carlton had gotten a reaction out of her was when he mentioned Spencer—and then he had to leap back to avoid getting his eyes scratched out before she could be restrained, and the chains on her handcuffs shortened.

“She said Yin picked up Spencer like a puppy,” Carlton replied. He didn’t blame Juliet for her sharp intake of breath. “But you saw them at the beach. Clearly he’s attached.”

“The specialist from the serial killers unit will be here tomorrow. Then we’ll know,” Juliet replied, closing the folder with a snap. “Do you want to wait for him to start the interview?”

Carlton stared a moment later, then shook his head. “No. I want to get his measure now, before he has a chance to hide behind a diagnosis. And don’t think I’m comfortable with the fact the Chief won’t let us keep him cuffed.”

“Carlton,” Juliet protested as he started for the door. “Seriously. Even if he was an accomplice, it’s more complicated than that and you know it.”

“Well we’ll find out, won’t we?” Carlton replied, gesturing towards the door, giving Juliet only raised eyebrows even if the whole situation made him a bit off-kilter. Usually he just let Juliet deal with victims. The live ones, anyway. He cast one last look through the mirror, trying to match the photo of the kid on all the missing posters—one he could picture with his eyed closed—with the man in front of him.

* * *

Shawn stared blankly in front of him, trying to block out the silence. Well, not _silence_. That was part of the problem. He could hear the hum of the AC, the muffled-but-still-audible noise of the police precinct on the other side of the interrogation room door. The creak of the cop’s shoes behind him, no doubt assigned to make sure he didn’t try to escape, or destroy the room. Or kill himself. Or whatever it was they were concerned about.

Shawn hadn’t even known he was back in Santa Barbara until the black and whites drove him to the station, still covered in sand and a few odd smears of blood. He’d sat upright when he realized he knew the streets, recognized the street names. He was probably supposed to feel relief, but all he felt was cold twisting in his stomach. He didn’t want to analyze the fact that the only relief he felt as he was yanked through the bullpen to the holding cells and saw his dad’s desk was gone entirely. His dad had made detective, he knew that. And the very fact Henry Spencer wasn’t busting down the door meant he’d either retired or left Santa Barbara entirely.

Mapping the layout of the station in his head—it didn’t look like it had been remodeled—he knew Yang had to be in the interrogation room to the left of him. He wondered if she’d let him call her Diana now, or even Rotmensen. It had always been Yang, upon Mr. Yin’s insistence.

 _If_ they ever spoke again. Shawn wasn’t sure if they’d get to talk to each other before the inevitable murder trials began.

The door opened, and the two detectives from the beach walked into the room. They were both wearing the same clothes from the night before, both sporting dark circles, the strong smell of coffee, and matching blank faces. The woman sat down in front of him, file in her hand, while the man stayed standing, leaning against the wall and staring Shawn down.

The woman cleared her throat, and for the first time she smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes, and it looked more nervous than anything else. “I’m Detective O’Hara, and this is my partner Detective Lassiter. And you … told us your name was ‘Sean Rotmensen’,” she continued sliding a copy of the initial report out of the folder, spinning it around so he could see the statement. “But we ran your prints. You’re Shawn Spencer.”

Shawn glanced at the man—at Lassiter, who was still boring holes in his head with his stare. “I was,” he offered. “But I haven’t been, for a while.”

The two detectives shared a glance, and O’Hara leaned forward. “Shawn Spencer disappeared when he was fourteen years old. It was a suspected abduction. Mr. Spencer … were you abducted that night?”

Shawn swallowed. He didn’t like thinking about that night—the night when everything changed. “Does it matter?” he asked. “It doesn’t really affect my situation here.”

“Are you confessing to something, Mr. Spencer?” Lassiter asked sharply, raising an eyebrow.

“We can work two cases at the same time,” O’Hara cut in, giving Lassiter another look. “And the case on your abduction was never closed.”

Shawn dropped his eyes down, staring at his hands for a moment. Mr. Yin was dead, he reminded himself. The rules didn’t apply here. Yang had whispered it in his ear, every once and awhile: if Mr. Yin ever died, the rules died too. “I never hurt her. I never—I never saw that girl before last night. Before the beach. Which sucks, because my understanding is that is _not_ the right context for meeting girls on the beach.”

Lassiter’s eyes narrowed, but O’Hara nodded. “How did you get to the beach?” she asked, and her voice was soft again. He’d heard it before, the night before, when O’Hara was comforting the girl. But there was something expectant in her voice, anticipatory. She was looking for confirmation, not a new answer.

“You’ve already spoken with Yang,” Shawn said slowly. “Or … the girl, she’s already given her statement.”

“We’d prefer to hear it from you,” O’Hara said. “We’re here to uncover the truth, Mr. Spencer. You have a family that misses you.”

Shawn rocked back in his seat like she’d slapped him. “Did you tell them already? Because, you know. I feel that’s something that should come from me. In a letter maybe, or a telegram. Do they still have telegrams? I feel that’s appropriately more formal.”

O’Hara paused at that, frowning slightly. “It’s police procedure to notify next of kin,” she replied. “Why didn’t you want us to tell them?”

“I was never very good at family reunions,” Shawn replied with a shrug. He could practically see the gears turning in O’Hara’s head, and looked away again before he started analyzing her expression.

“Tell us how you got to the beach,” Lassiter cut in, finally approaching the table to sit down beside O’Hara. Shawn decided he liked Lassiter better—he could throw himself against a hard, unforgiving wall. Pity wasn’t something Shawn could deal with right now.

“In the van,” Shawn replied with a shrug. “Mr. Yin said we were going on a trip. I didn’t know where we were going—and I didn’t know that girl was going to be there. I don’t even know who she is. I know it’s impossible for you guys to get to know Mr. Yin now, but trust me. He was the worst travel planner ever. No idea of what a good time is.”

O’Hara furrowed her brow, and this time her glance seemed to be at the two-way mirror. “Miss Golightly said that you were blindfolded and given earmuffs. She hadn’t seen you once during her captivity until you were brought into the van.”

“But unlike her, you weren’t tied up at all,” Lassiter cut in. “So color me skeptical that you didn’t take the chance to run.”

“Run?” Shawn repeated, spreading open his hands in front of him. “Run where, exactly? Mr. Yin is way better at running and fighting than me. Yeah, I could have reached up and taken them off and bolted, but he’d catch up to me. And making him unhappy wasn’t exactly a smart thing to do.”

“Why do you call him ‘Mr. Yin’?” Juliet asked. “His name was Karl Rotmensen, wasn’t it? It’s where you got the first name you gave us.”

Shawn huffed, his shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t allowed to call him that. For him, real names are a sign of respect. A privilege among colleagues. Neither of you would like it if I started calling you Juliet and Carlton, would you?”

O’Hara’s eyes widened, her lips parting slightly. Lassiter was far less subtle, jerking like he’d been electrocuted before leaning sharply forward. “How did you know our names?” he hissed. The answer, of course, was that there was a report peeking up from the file O’Hara had in her hands when she had first put the file down, before she tapped it to make everything align properly. The font had been upside down in tiny print, and it had only been visible for a second.

“I’m psychic,” Shawn drawled, the words coming easily enough. _Just remember, Shawnie_ , Yang had giggled at him one night, when Mr. Yin had sent him on a fact-finding mission at UCLA to make sure a rival didn’t get tenure. Someone annoying enough Mr. Yin wanted to see them humiliated—but not a big enough threat to enough to bother getting rid of them himself. _If anyone catches you, just say you’re psychic. Real people get all funny about creatures like us. Just because we have perfect memories_ and _perfect hair doesn’t make it impossible. And you can’t deny that a psychic is more romantic. People love a little romance; they want to be told a story. It’s more comforting than knowing their life is one giant Pay-Per-View_. Between Yin and Yang, Shawn suspected Yang was actually smarter. The problem was, she was also a hell of a lot more broken.

“Psychic?” O’Hara asked, her voice lifting in confusion and wonder.

Lassiter’s echoing, “Psychic?” was more of a skeptical statement, his gravel pitch enough to make Shawn’s grin widen.

“Yeah, a psychic.” It was the first lie he’d been able to tell for so long without worrying about being caught. Oh, they might not believe him, they might dismiss him. But he could say it and not worry about consequences. Not _real_ ones. “Why do you think he wanted me?”

“Well, your best friend next door said she wanted a puppy,” Lassiter drawled, and wow, okay. He knew he was probably the trickiest part of their case right now, and he really couldn’t deal with overt sympathy, but a few pulled punches would have been nice. O’Hara outright twisted in her seat to glare at Lassiter, turning back around to Shawn with another one of her softer smiles.

“We never found a pattern in the victims Yin and Yang selected,” O’Hara said, her voice quiet now. Careful. “And they were always … adults, mostly. At least in college.”

“Why don’t you ask Yang? Because look, I’ll tell you one thing right now,” Shawn said. And this, he had to be clear about. He had to have it on record. “Yang never picked out any victims. I don’t know what he made her do, but—she likes puzzles, she likes games, she doesn’t kill. Not until last night, and that was only to—But she knew him, okay? She knew everything about him.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, those two seemed like a real match made in heaven. We’ve found plenty of Yang’s victims.”

“Mr. Yin’s victims,” Shawn corrected. “I told you, she does puzzles. He’s the one who needed to hunt—and you should be glad you’ve only dealt with her puzzles before, not his games.” He’d seen the news in 1995. It had been a few months after he’d earned some privileges, when he could watch TV or even move around the house at the time. He’d felt sickly proud, that he’d earned those rights. “And seriously, are you kidding me?” he continued, making a face at Lassiter. “That’s a bit optical, don’t you think? He was her father, for god’s sake. They weren’t lovers in the night.”

O’Hara took a deep breath, lifting two fingers to ward off the reply Lassiter already opened his mouth to give. “Do you mean oedipal?”

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn said, his lips quirking up.

Lassiter’s hand slammed down on the table, and Shawn wasn’t proud of the way he jumped, but what did he care about dignity. “This isn’t a joke,” Lassiter snarled. “This is about the most infamous serial killer Santa Barbara has ever had. And you, Mr. Spencer, are in the middle of it. You are in no position to be a smart ass. If you’ve gone native, I don’t really care if you’re a victim or not.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” Shawn repeated, but his heart beat faster. That wasn’t entirely true, but it hadn’t been intentional. Consequence was not the same as direct action … at least, he hoped it wasn’t. He stared back at the detective, at the sharp, unblinking stare of the blue eyes. Suspicious and uncompromising even as his partner stood, trying to yank him up with her.

Muffled shouting prompted both of them to look to the door, Lassiter’s hand going to his holster. The door banged open, and honestly, Shawn’s first impression was the awful print of a Hawaiian shirt before he realized the man wearing it was painfully familiar.

“Dad?” Shawn’s voice was barely a whisper as he stared. It wasn’t like he was actually frozen—he still cataloged the rough edge of his dad's collar, the bit of shaving cream under his ear, the lack of hair. He heard O’Hara ask “Chief?” as a woman came in behind the man, saying “Henry, there are protocols in place and you know you can’t just interrupt my detectives like that.”

Shawn couldn’t believe there would ever be a day when his dad didn’t care about police protocol. And yet his dad ignored everyone else in the room, closing the distance between the door and Shawn in the space of a breath.

“God damn it, Shawn,” his dad muttered, swooping down and wrapping his arms around Shawn.

Shawn considered himself an adult, at the end of the day. His childhood had ended abruptly, and living with Mr. Yin required a certain kind of detachment that meant getting emotional was certainly something to avoid. But while his dad was a bit softer, and Shawn was definitely bigger, his dad still smelled like aftershave and his toothpaste, and just faintly the sour tang of beer, and Shawn felt _safe_.

If he wrapped his arms around his dad so tightly he was shaking, and buried his face in his dad’s shoulder, and burst into tears … well. It was probably the least of his problems.


	3. Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I wanted to state plainly, for the sake of my readers: The trauma and abuse Shawn suffers at Yin's hands is entirely physical and psychological. While sexual abuse is not part of this fic, other victims of it are referenced, and Shawn may be asked about it.
> 
> We're also getting our first look into some of the specific ordeals Shawn suffered. I've added a claustrophobia tag for this reason.

Shawn’s laced fingers rested on his stomach as he stared up at the speckled ceiling. The conference room was a step up from the interrogation room, but Shawn knew his dad didn’t appreciate it. He’d been in the station for … oh, a little more than twenty-four hours by now. More than enough time to figure out Lassiter wanted to be chief, O’Hara was new to town, and the chief was clearly wishing she wasn’t pregnant so she could have a stiff drink. The department was practically shut down, only officers being let in and out as the press was practically camped out on the front steps.

There was a TV on a rickety rolling cart in the corner, airing some ball game for his dad. His dad, who was finally on the phone. Henry hadn’t left Shawn alone for more than a few minutes, hovering for the past 12 hours. Once Shawn had finished shedding his very manly tears, he had no idea what to say to his dad. He couldn’t face his dad’s disappointment, that moment he snapped and asked Shawn what use all those years of training where if Shawn didn’t do anything with them when it counted?

His dad hadn’t seemed any more eager to talk to Shawn after his few attempts of, “It’s gonna be okay, Shawn,” didn’t loosen Shawn’s lips any. He leaned into every shoulder squeeze, though. He’d missed his dad’s hugs.

“Shawn,” his dad said suddenly, appearing in Shawn’s field of vision. “I just heard from your mother. Her flight got delayed, but she’ll be in tonight.”

“Can I talk to her?” Shawn asked, swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat.

Henry frowned, glancing through the open door at Vick’s temporary command center. “They don’t want you talking on the phone right now, Shawn. Which is bullshit,” Henry muttered, dropping into one of the chairs.

Shawn didn’t say anything. He was in limbo, he figured. A suspect victim. A sictem, a vuspect. They didn’t know if he was going to break into a million pieces or go on a stabbing spree.

Shawn knew of the two, only the first was likely.

“Shawn,” Henry said suddenly, popping up to pace again. Shawn’s eyes tracked him, not even bothering to sit up. Wasn’t it odd, that Shawn was the still one between them now? “We have to talk. It’s about your mother. She’s in New York because—”

“Dad,” Shawn said, and this time he did sit up, turning so he could put his feet flat on the ground. Like all he needed for this conversation was a firm foundation. “I know you two divorced.”

Henry looked surprised for a moment before he gave the tiniest pleased grin. “Figured that out, huh?”

“No,” Shawn said, focusing on a chip on the wooden floor in front of him. “Mr. Yin told me. He said I should keep up to date with the two of you.” Just to prove to Shawn how easy it would be for Mr. Yin to get to them, if Shawn ever really screwed up. That even if his mom was traveling or his dad was undercover, he’d still be able to find them within a day.

“He what?” Henry asked, and then the once over he gave Shawn was all cop. “They were watching us?”

“From afar. We weren’t in Santa Barbara for most of the time,” Shawn said before getting up, not looking at his dad before he picked up the deck of cards one of the desk clerks had placed in there when it became clear they weren’t leaving any time soon. He could feel Henry’s stare boring into his head, but when Shawn just fanned out the cards and started building a card house, Henry seemed to give up.

“You want something to eat?” Henry asked, but he didn’t wait for Shawn’s answer. “I’ll get us some pizza. Or Vick can pay for the vending machine herself,” he added darkly. His dad left the door open as he went, giving Shawn a peek into the hive of activity in the station. The blinds on the room’s window had been pulled shut, but now he got the full buzz of voices, the ringing phones. There was a row of crime boards behind the cluster of desks. Shawn squinted, but he could match his own photo alongside Yang’s, both mugshots, and a headshot of Mr. Yin on what was clearly a mortuary slab.

His face was empty in death, like any other old man and not the _monster_ Shawn knew so well.

Shawn dropped back down, hissing and digging the butt of his palms into his eyes. It wasn’t that he wished Mr. Yin was alive—he was glad the man was dead, that Yang had done it herself so that there was no chance it was an act, a trick, a way to fake his death. But the rest of his life hadn’t been a certainty, before. He’d focused on each day at a time, at the gamut of tasks and trails Mr. Yin would lay out for him. Every new day was another victory—another certainty he could keep his parents safe, keep Mr. Yin occupied so maybe he didn’t go out looking for blood more often. It was about trying to stay sane even at his lowest moments, even when he was certain he’d been thrown into a hole he’d never climb out of.

And maybe a sword wasn’t hanging over his head anymore, but Shawn wasn’t actually sure he’d climbed out of the hole yet. Because he was supposed to be excited to get his life back, right? To be a free man, assuming they didn’t cut their losses and throw him in jail just to make a point. But instead Shawn just saw the days stretch before him, no rules and no structure, but no doubt full of expectation. Of Shawn being like the kid he was, or living an inspirational life worthy of _People_ exposes and lifetime movies. Of giving TedTalks about surviving trauma.

Shawn wondered if he could just leave as soon as the police cleared him, if he could disappear instead of disappointing the people he never thought he’d see again.

Raised voices—angry enough to be heard even over the chaos of the station—echoed through the open door, and Shawn dropped his hand as one of them tugged at his brain. Familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place.

“I understand that the station is closed to the public, that is why I am here. Henry Spencer called me specifically, he said Shawn Spencer has been found—”

“We cannot comment on any ongoing cases. And the station _is_ closed so unless you want to be arrested for interfering and trespass—”

“Hey, it’s okay—” And that was his dad’s voice cutting in just as a loud cheer went up from the TV, the ball game still playing even when no one was watching. “—he’s family, okay?”

“Just take my ID, call and verify whoever you want. I was interviewed during original case, okay? It’s been my property held in evidence all along!”

Shawn’s world seemed to tilt, flipping him over and letting him freefall. He stumbled upright and out of the room, mouth suddenly dry. The noise of the station faded to a dull buzz in the background. He leaned against the doorframe and carefully peered out, the first time he’d even tried to approach the door unescorted since he arrived.

His dad was arguing with Chief Vick, both of them glaring each other down with crossed arms and increasingly raised voices. A man stood beside Henry, dressed in fashionable clothing, looking like a well-to-do business man—except he looked a bit askew, like he’d gotten a call to come to the station and dropped everything to do so.

His hair was shaved close to his head, practically bald. And he had mostly grown into his ears, and had a comfortable set to his shoulders, for all that they were gathered in tension. He looked …

He looked nothing like the kid with a history book tucked under his arm, rolling his eyes as Shawn shoved so much egg salad into his mouth he almost coughed it all back up. He looked nothing like the kid who had promised to call Shawn after _Real World_ so they could go over their talking points, to make sure that they didn’t _bore anyone with repeated analysis, Shawn_.

The guy looked up as Henry suddenly threw up his hands, eyes traveling right past the fight in front of him, his gazing locking onto Shawn. Shawn distantly cataloged a widening of the eyes, a sharp intake of breath. He took a step back because this was somehow worse than seeing his dad.

“Shawn!” He didn’t get a chance to take another step back. Because Gus was already barreling right through Vick and his Dad with a determination Shawn didn’t quite recognize, and then Shawn was being wrapped up in the second hug for as many days.

Unlike with his dad, it didn’t last forever. Gus took a step back for a moment, looking Shawn up and down before their eyes met again. Shawn couldn’t get the words out—he didn’t even _recognize_ his friend, how could Gus have known him on sight?

“I knew you took my Walkman.” Gus’s voice was deeper now, every word perfectly crisp. He smelled like cocoa butter, and his shirt was pressed and clearly hadn’t been found at Target. “You know that means you owe me a new one, right?”

Shawn sucked in a shaky laugh, and his smile was a real one. It almost hurt, to find those muscles again, his first smile that wasn’t a twitch or a ghost. “I must have mixed it up with mine by mistake.”

“Nope. Yours broke two days before. Plus, mine was a sleek black, and yours was bright orange, covered in banana stickers, and had a scratch on it. I didn’t fall for it then and I am not falling for it now.” But Gus’s fingers were digging into his shoulders, and then Gus was hugging him again, squeezing just as tightly as his dad had.

“Okay, buddy. You got it. One Walkman, coming up.” Shawn’s voice was a little too shaky, and he doubted Gus couldn’t feel the fine tremor running through him.

“Plus interest, Shawn,” Gus insisted, but his voice was wavering too. Shawn couldn’t help but laughing again, his shoulders shaking, and he ducked his head before the laugh turned into a sob.

Shawn took a step back, but he was already pulling Gus by the arm. He could practically feel the eyes of the station on them, and he didn’t feel inclined with sharing Gus. Henry was no stranger to how the police approached these cases. While Shawn knew it made his dad furious that they’d even consider Shawn a suspect, he also could understand the detectives were just doing their jobs. But Shawn couldn’t stand the idea of Gus realizing the police’s suspicions and sharing them even for a single second. Shawn tugged Gus into the conference room and shut the door behind him, like that would stop them from kicking Gus out if they really wanted to. But Shawn had gotten by for fourteen years by clinging to illusions of security wherever he could find them. Why stop now?

* * *

The one thing Carlton had managed to get out of Yang had been an address. For someone who spoke in riddles and delighted in terrifying anyone she could, Yang was oddly forthcoming when it came to incriminating herself. And Carlton … didn’t think she was lying, but he also didn’t trust her motives for offering it up.

He refused to ask the psychologist Vick had brought in. Mary Lightly set Carlton on edge, unsettling in the kind of way that meant he’d either nail Yang to the wall or end up wanting to marry her. The man was somewhere downstairs, going through the kitchen because he said he’d wanted to know Yang before they went back to the station and had yet another formal interrogation.

Carlton … honestly, would rather be in the kitchen at that moment. The house looked normal enough, from the street. But they’d discovered every single window in the home was barred—some obviously, and some subtly, not obvious unless looking at them from head on. The outside doors were similarly locked-down, most of them handled electronically.

And then there was single door on the second story with a state-of-the-art lock and hidden hinges. The second Carlton walked into the room, he knew it belonged to Spencer. It was sparser, than the other two rooms. Yang’s had clearly been a woman’s room, though it looked oddly like a teenage girl’s room several decades old, filled with pink frills and magazine cut outs. And Yin’s had been far more reserved, filled with dark woods and stately furniture and a towering bookcase. Spencer’s had clothes left scattered on the floor, comic books stacked in the corner, and a few empty cans of soda on the windowsill.

It also had a half-empty first aid kit on the dresser, a second set of blindfolds and earmuffs hanging by the door, and framed newspaper clippings on the wall, each one reporting every time Henry Spencer had ever been harmed in the line of duty, or when Madeline Spencer had been clipped by a hit-and-run driver in New York. It had turned Carlton’s stomach, but it wasn’t the worst thing he’d found.

Inside the room, there was a small en suite bathroom, a closet lined with clothes, and a third, dark space. Carlton had thought it was a crawlspace at first, or some kind of attic access. But then he’d seen the bucket in the corner, how thick the walls seemed to be. The camera in the top right corner. The scratches on the wall, clearly built up over years by the degree of fading in the paint and the wood. Carlton had already called in the techs, but he knew who’s DNA they’d find in the scratches.

For the first time, Carlton had a glimmer of doubt before he steeled himself. No, he’d known that Yin had probably hurt Spencer. Yang and Spencer had both already confirmed it, though Spencer had been unwilling to go into the details. Sickos like Yin didn’t take people just to keep around as pets, no matter what Yang said. Lightly’s only comment was that Shawn’s actual treatment would give insight into Yin’s motives—something Carlton could have said himself.

Carlton had seen the worst of humanity. He’d seen dead-eyed victims who were too numb to react to anything anymore, who never lasted longer than police protection ran. He’d seen victims who’d relied on self-preservation and did whatever it took to survive, including finding new victims just to keep attention away from themselves. He’d seen victims take horrific actions themselves, either repeating what was done to them due to an attempt to control their own experience or simply because they didn’t know anything different.

Granted, Spencer didn’t seem anything like that. He was small and skittish in the interrogation room, his jokes tinged with a touch of mania and a bone-deep exhaustion. He’d also seen Spencer’s school records—a genius-level IQ paired with average grades and a string of behavioral issues. The interviews the department had given at the time all said the same thing: _Shawn could do anything he put his mind to, if he just tried. What a tragedy, what a waste of talent_.

The perfect mold for a serial killer who seemed just as intelligent. Karl Rotmensen had taught at prestigious colleges around the country for decades—except for the past fourteen years, when he’d stuck to California. He’d been a star in his field, writing books and conferences, leading departments and giving presentations. And if Yang really was his daughter—as the evidence seemed to suggest—he’d certainly created a killer before. O’Hara was making her way through every piece of the Rotmensen’s life, trying track their moves around California.

Carlton turned on his heal and left the room, getting out of the way of the crime scene techs as they continued their sweep, already finding a few traces of blood soaked underneath the carpet. He’d called in tech guys to work on the cameras—Carlton hadn’t found a feed yet, and they needed to see what was on those tapes. Maybe they’d get lucky and see Hannah Golightly on the tapes. Maybe they’d get unlucky and discover more victims.

But Carlton knew the partial answer to Shawn Spencer was on those tapes. Carlton would be able to see Spencer’s time in this house, see exactly what Yin was building him into. He trusted his eyes more than anything Yang or Spencer could say—and certainly more than Lightly’s psycho-babbled explanations.

His phone rang and Carlton answered it with a terse, “Lassiter.”

“ _Carlton_?” Juliet’s voice echoed down the phone line at him. “ _Get this—they’ve only been living in Santa Barbara for a month. I found a previous address forty minutes away, and I think they stayed there for two full years_.”

Hannah Golightly had gone missing two weeks ago. Carlton scrubbed a hand across his face, more convinced then ever that Yin had come back into town with a performance in mind. Shawn Spencer was meant to kill someone two nights ago, and they were meant to have found a body. Carlton felt It in his gut, a tight knot he really didn’t want to unravel.

“Give me the address, I’ll head over with some officers and start casing it out,” Carlton replied, stopping to scribble it in his notebook.

“ _Carlton_ ,” Juliet said, and this time her voice had a hint of steel to it.

“Fine, O’Hara. I’ll swing by the station and pick you up. Be ready,” Carlton snapped his phone shut with a click and started for his car before making a face, knowing Vick would ream him out.

“Lightly!” he shouted, veering into the kitchen and glaring at the figure sitting at the kitchen table, gloved hands running over cereal boxes from the pantry. “We’ve got their former address, they only moved here—”

“A month ago,” Lightly replied, not bothering to turn around. “Yes, I know. They haven’t built up their pantry yet, all the food is new. Even the take out menus in the drawer are still fresh.”

“You’re looking at their take out menus?” Carlton sneered, but Lightly only nodded serenely.

“How else can I know them? I’ve always wanted to meet Yang—but I have to completely acquaint myself with Yin.” Carlton grit his teeth at the slightly wondrous note in Lightly’s voice—and the completely dismissive wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter where they were, right now. I need to know were they are.”

“Where they are is in the police station and the morgue,” Carlton snapped, but Lightly shook his head.

“Not here,” Lightly replied, tapping his temple and finally turning around, only to veer left and start going through a recycling bin that had been tucked away.

A recycling bin. The serial killers had a recycling bin.

Carlton shook his head, blinking before he stalked away. Less time with Lightly was just fine with him—he had a case to close.


	4. Day 3

Shawn yawned, scratching his chin and purposely not looking at the man in front of him. He knew he should take this seriously. He might finally— _finally_ —be able to get out of the police station. They couldn’t stay shut-down for another day, no matter what evidence was being pulled in. He’d overheard Lassiter loudly complaining to O’Hara about the FBI possibly taking over the case. After searching the house—the Santa Barbara house, Shawn now realized, and he felt foolish thinking of how many times over the past fourteen years he’d been brought home for a few months and didn’t even know it—the police certainly had decided he was a victim. Capitol V, needed the ‘soft voice, softer eyes’ approach, everyone-be-nice-to-him, victim.

Mary Lightly was here to clear him, to make sure they didn’t need to keep an eye on him. To swing by to check on his alibi each time a coed turned up dead.

The thing was, Shawn maybe felt a bit more like himself then he had … ever. Gus had left the night before and came back that morning with new clothes in Shawn’s size, and his dad made sure Shawn was allowed to use the station showers. And that had been nice, since Shawn was admittedly feeling gross and grimy. And he’d taken personal satisfaction in washing all of the gel out of his hair. Mr. Yin had always insisted he look ‘well-groomed and presentable’ at all times outside of the house.

It had been his first hint they’d been going somewhere that last night, long before Mr. Yin had silently pointed to the earmuffs by the front door and Yang had gently cuffed his hands in front of him. Mr. Yin had taken one look at his hair and silently pointed to the bathroom.

The worst reunion had probably been with his mother. She’d always been so calm when he was younger, a level-headed voice compared his father’s loud aggression. Not _true_ aggression, Shawn knew now, but at the time the difference couldn’t have been starker. And yet the cry she gave when she first saw Shawn still echoed around his head, accompanied by the phantom smell of her perfume as she wrapped her arms around him.

His dad had made him feel safe, and Gus had made him feel like himself again. But his mom made him feel like he was home. And this time the tears didn’t stop, the full reality crashing down on him. _Mr. Yin was dead. Mr. Yin was dead, and he can never go after your parents or Gus or you or_ —

His parents had gone home for the interview, setting up his dad’s house to get ready for his arrival, and for his mom to stay. And Gus, apparently, after he overheard Gus asking his dad if he should bring a mattress pad for the fold out couch in the living room.

Shawn would have thought he was dreaming, or hallucinating a happy ending—it wouldn’t have been the first time—except those never had the mundane moments. They didn’t have O’Hara approach him, careful but friendly, and ask him if he knew of any other addresses they stayed. They didn’t have Lassiter stop to ask him—voice short and curt but far less accusatory—if he knew where Mr. Yin’s video feeds were.

Shawn had answered their questions, excused himself, and gone into the bathroom to throw up.

And now Shawn was here, at his last hurdle before freedom, so he could get released to his parents and not sent to some mental institution where he could be kept under guard. And yet…

Shawn knew smart people. Mr. Yin and Yang were geniuses themselves, and Shawn kept pace with their brilliance even if he faltered at the madness. His mother and Gus were both exceptionally bright, and while his father didn’t share exceptionally high IQ numbers like the rest of them he had a certain shrewdness and eye for detail that was unique on its own. Mary Lightly was clearly just as smart, and noticed things as his father did. He clearly liked puzzles—and Shawn thought he’d get along with Yang on that, actually, except he knew Yang would hate him on sight for being a psychologist. But it was equally clear to Shawn that Lightly treated people like puzzles.

Shawn didn’t want to be dissected any more than he already had.

The second Vick had introduced them, Lightly had scanned him, eyes running up and down his body in a way that would have been suggestive on anyone else. But it wasn’t attraction that shone in Lightly’s eyes; it was fascination. He’d seen the same look on Lightly’s face when Shawn passed through the bullpen after his shower, spotting Lightly looking across the growing crime boards now wrapping their way around the station. One way or another, Lightly admired Mr. Yin’s work, and it made Shawn sick, deep in his stomach in a way he couldn’t shake.

“We could sit in silence,” Lightly finally offered. “I’m comfortable in silence. My mother used to take our family to silent retreats every summer if we did well in school.”

“And what did she do if you did bad?” Shawn scoffed. “Take you to Disneyland?”

“The county fair, actually,” Lightly replied. “The large cabbages in the competition were very unsettling.”

“Well, now that’s just not fair. What did the cabbage ever do to you? Now, if you had said rutabagas, I would have agreed with you.”

Lightly nodded, tenting his fingers slightly. “You do a lot of diffusing anxiety through humor,” he observed. “I noticed Yang does that too. It’s a different kind of humor,” Lightly continued as if Shawn hadn’t stiffened in his seat, though he could tell from the flicker of Lightly’s eyes the movement hadn’t gone unnoticed. “She likes to make people uncomfortable with what she’s saying. But you’re simply deflecting, Shawn.”

“Went to go see Yangers, huh?” Shawn asked, keeping his voice deliberately light. “How’d that go?”

“She made a point of propositioning everyone in the room but me,” Lightly replied. And yeah, that did sound like Yang. “Including Detective O’Hara, and I don’t think it was entirely an act.”

“Don’t worry, she just has a thing for blondes,” Shawn said, directing his words towards the one-way glass running along the wall. Lightly’s mouth curled up at the corner, and Shawn knew his guess had been right.

“She’s protective of you. And you’re protective of her,” Lightly said, and just like that Shawn’s lifting mood cratered back down. “It’s understandable, considering where you both were. I believe you when you say she never killed anyone. She displays characteristics more typical of a victim than an aggressor. And you, Mr. Spencer…” Lightly leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. “I think Yin wanted you to be his protege.” 

Shawn swallowed, dipping his head to fiddle with the sleeve of his new hoodie. It smelled like detergent; Gus had gone through the trouble of washing it, and he had a feeling he had an entire new wardrobe waiting for him at his dad’s house. No, at home. “You think so?” Shawn finally asked, keeping his voice steady.

“I know so. I also know that you were the one who let the girl go and gave her Yang’s phone to call 911 the second he was dead.” Lightly leaned back in his chair, his piercing eyes roving over Shawn again. “Whatever he tried to do to you, clearly it didn’t take.”

“Does that mean you’re giving me a clean bill of health?” Shawn asked, finally meeting Lightly’s gaze. It was delighted, and Shawn’s mouth went sour.

“It means I don’t think you’ve committed any crimes, and I don’t think you’re a danger to society. It also means I’m going to recommend you have regular evaluations—both for yourself, and because the Yin case is far from solved.”

“Uh huh,” Shawn said flatly. “And who’s doing these regular evaluations?”

Lightly smiled, beaming widely. “I hear Santa Barbara’s real estate is thriving right now.”

Well.

 _Great_.

* * *

Carlton didn’t bother to hide his glare as he watched the Spencers in the chief’s office. He could be working over Yin’s Santa Barbara house, but he was stuck here, waiting for Vick to be done with the Spencers so he could go to the press conference with her, only a few minutes away. Spencer and his mother were sitting, while Henry paced around the room. Thanks to Lightly, Spencer was going home—though with a warning not to leave the city until the case was completely closed. He could see the relief on Madeline’s face, but Henry still looked mad.

And Spencer just looked blank.

He knew Vick was probably laying out a few other conditions, like Spencer staying with his parents, coming in for regular sessions with Lightly. Carlton thought it was too early—at the very least, Spencer should be spending time in a facility or a halfway house. Just until they could be duly sure he wasn’t some kind of time bomb.

It was easier, in some ways, to be angry with Spencer. Juliet had identified three more houses, and they’d already been able to visit the two nearest ones. Each house was eerily similar—even if the floorplans didn’t match, each room was arranged approximately the same way. Every single house was fully furnished—the only thing it lacked was clothes in the closets, food in the kitchen, and people. It was like an endless parade of vacation rentals, except for the one bedroom that always had a small, dark space with scratches on the walls.

Carlton hadn’t pointed out to Juliet that the oldest scratches were the lowest ones, like some kind of demented growth chart.

So far, the biggest find had been the discovery that the cluttered basements were always unfinished, always made of concrete, and always consisted of three rooms. A narrow part, near the stairway to the main house and near any basement doors or bulkheads that might exist, cluttered and cobwebbed like many other basements. A larger section, stark cement under screaming fluorescent lights set up as some kind of home gym. And a small, sound proofed room, that only held a toilet, a camping cot, and a chair.

The Santa Barbara house’s room had Hannah’s coat and shoes in it, and all the missing items from her purse. The third house had swimming goggles and a woman’s sun hat, and Carlton was already checking the hairs they’d found against the DNA database.

Juliet came to stand beside him, their arms brushing lightly as she settled in to lean against his desk. “Lightly wants to interview Yang again, now that’s he’s spoken to Spencer. He says that Spencer’s assertions that Yang never killed anyone make him question which murders we’ve correctly pinned on them.”

“Spencer is clearly attached to Yang,” Carlton snapped, turning away. “Just because she didn’t deliver any killing strokes doesn’t mean she’s not an accomplice—to murder _or_ kidnapping.”

“Do you think it’s because she protected him?” Juliet wondered. “Or because she wasn’t as bad as Yin?”

Carlton thought back to the look in Yang’s eyes when he mentioned Spencer, the way she snarled as she tried to leap across the desk. “I think Yin was a sick son of a bitch who didn’t care whose life he ruined,” Carlton muttered. “And I think we’re lucky Yin got his hands on Spencer when he was fourteen, not when he was even younger.” He turned to his desk, pulling out Spencer’s old school records from the original case files, and pushed them towards Juliet. “Look at his record. He’s a genius, and he had an overprotective cop father.”

“But he wasn’t _always_ with Yin,” Juliet said with a frown. At Carlton’s questioning glance she shook her head. “I finished the background check on the alias—Sean Rothmensen? He held a few jobs, got an online degree from one of the colleges Yin taught at. He wasn’t locked up, completely away from people.”

“But he still didn’t run,” Carlton said, going back to staring through the blinds in Vick’s office. “God damn it. We need to see what was on those video feeds.”

Juliet didn’t speak for a moment, and when she did, her words were slow and careful. “I believe him when he said he didn’t hurt anyone. But I think he could be a danger to himself or others. Just not intentionally.”

“That’s not much better. He should be going into a facility,” Carlton said harshly, and Juliet sighed beside him.

“He should be getting help. That doesn’t mean a facility. I doubt being sedated and confined is going to help him get over something like this,” Juliet argued. “Just … something more than Mary Lightly.”

“I’ll let you tell that to the chief,” Carlton said, even though he agreed. They both looked up as the door to Vick’s office opened—but only Spencer himself emerged. Carlton watched him, the way his eyes darted all over the precinct, tracing the furniture, the crime wall, the officers. When his eyes landed on them Juliet stiffened and looked away guiltily, but Carlton met his gaze head-on. Spencer seemed to take it as an invitation and walked over to them, though his hands stayed in his pockets, looking a bit pale in the navy blue hoodie that had been given to him.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me,” Spencer said, and that was enough to make refrain from making an immediate excuse to leave. “About where Mr. Yin’s video feeds are? I told you he kept everything important in his office. No matter where we were staying.”

“You did, but we didn’t find anything,” Carlton replied. And there it was again—Spencer always said “Mr. Yin”, even when Yang was just “Yang.” It was a detail Carlton wasn’t any more comfortable noticing than the scratches.

“But you give us a list of houses was very helpful,” Juliet said, and Spencer gave her a bare ghost of a smile, then returned his gaze to Carlton. It was an odd gaze—hollow and sharp at the same time.

“Sometimes Mr. Yin liked to hide surprises around the house,” Spencer said. “A lot of the time they were more like traps. But sometimes, they were cooler. Stuff like hidden rooms.”

“Hidden rooms?” Carlton repeated before thinking of the small room in the basement. “Where would this hidden room be?”

“For something like the cameras?” Spencer asked before shrugging. “I knew there were cameras, but he didn’t let me ever see the videos. I don’t think he showed them to Yang either. But the only room I wasn’t allowed into was his office.”

Carlton had already been through the office, but hadn’t found much. It was mostly filled with books, personal paperwork typical of any professor, and some drinks from expensive labels. There had been a small case of classic poisons, but as far as Carlton or the lab techs could tell, it was older and had never been opened.

“Right,” Carlton said, wondering if it would be worth asking Yang about. Probably not, but with Lightly due another interview, it couldn’t hurt. “Well. If you think of anything else, Mr. Spencer, you know where to find us.”

“Chief Vick said it was likely you’d be following up with everything Lightly asks me,” Spencer replied, rocking back on his heels. “I figured he’s not strictly cop-like, you know? He wears ankle weights instead of ankle holsters. Or … regular holsters,” Spencer continued, glancing at Juliet. Carlton glanced down at his own ankles, wondering how Spencer had spotted them. Carlton had certainly never noticed the ankle weights on Lightly.” 

“He’s with the FBI,” Carlton grit out. “Which means you can still treat him as ‘cop-like.’ Show him the same respect you would any of us.”

“Respect, huh?” Spencer asked, and Carlton felt himself bristling before the doors to Vick’s office opened again. The Spencers were like a wave of activity—Henry and Madeline swept their son up and followed Dobson towards the back door to the station, intent on avoiding the media circus out front. Neither one seemed particularly inclined to let him go; Henry kept a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and Madeline had their arms linked together. Several people made a point to say goodbye on their way out—people who, like Carlton, had worked with Henry Spencer. Most of them had been working when Spencer first went missing, and a few of the oldest remembered Spencer himself.

“I’ve kept the FBI off our part of the case,” Vick announced once the Spencers were gone. “Since they’re local to California. They’re going to be working at tracing his movements before he settled in California and see if Yang was with him the entire time.”

“You mean he might not have traveled around with a nutcase?” Carlton scoffed. “Say it ain’t so.”

Vick held up a single finger, jabbing it in Carlton’s direction. “Not today,” she warned. “This case hits too close to home.”

“Sorry, Chief,” Juliet said, then elbowed Carlton until he grudgingly apologized.

“I don’t want Yang's lawyers to get the slightest ground for claiming bias during her trial,” Vick warned before she sighed, rubbing her stomach. Carlton was sure she didn’t know she was doing it, and sure enough, she hastily dropped her hand a moment later. “Whatever’s been happening, I want to know. This press conference is going to be bad enough.”

Carlton pushed himself up off his desk, glancing down to make sure his tie was straight enough. It wasn’t going to be the kind of press conference he actually got to speak at, but he liked to show his face, provide Vick a strong visual back up. “As the two detectives who apprehended Yang, they’re going to want lots of details for you. We’re keeping things tight-lipped—-and beyond confirming Shawn Spencer’s identity, we’re not making any other comments about him.”

“Was that Henry’s request?” Carlton asked, slightly annoyed. Henry should know better—the media was going to be salivating over the story. A found child, a serial killer, captivity. Half those in attendance would be ringing up the editors, and the others would be rushing home to get in the first draft for the Lifetime movie. Trying to wrap Spencer up in mystery was only going to make him a more alluring target.

“Madeline’s. She wanted to bring him East with her, but I’m not letting him out of the state until the case is wrapped up,” Vick replied, pulling on her suit coat before striding to the front doors. “Despite your glowing confidence in my decisions, I am capable of managing this, detective.”

“I didn’t say you’re not managing this!” Carlton protested, but even Juliet didn’t look like she believed him. Whatever. The immediate surge of activity as they pushed open the precinct doors and descended the steps automatically snapped Carlton to attention. The crowd surged closer—though not going so far as to crowd the chief as she finally settled at the center of the middle landing, Carlton and Juliet flanking either shoulder. The cameras flashed and video cameras were hoisted higher, and Carlton let the shouting wash over him.

Something in his brain kept turning, though. Something about dark closets, haunted brown eyes, and the way Yang’s bloodied hands on the beach had been shaking in the moonlight.


End file.
